Friday, July 18, 2014

No, Daddy, No: Part 4: Turning Tables

Katie woke up in the bathtub, her back burning with an intensity she'd never felt before.  She was still wet, so she must not have been asleep for too long. She tucked her knees up to her stomach, but was careful not to hug them.  It was then that she noticed the soft green towel draped over her like a blanket. She shoved it away, letting it pool behind her in the tub.

While she was wet, she couldn't feel anything dripping down her back, so at least she wasn’t bleeding.  Her memory was a little fuzzy there.  She recalled a few flashes of a salt shaker and him yelling about her vodka. When the burn got too intense, she'd checked out for a little bit. Only when he’d washed her off in the shower did she fully come back to her senses. Afterwards, he had left her there again, but instead of bothering to get out, she’d just gone to sleep right there.

She sat up, catching her hair before it touched the cuts on her back. Tears threatened to fall.  Kate grabbed the towel and wadded it up, hugging it like the stuffed alligator on the floor in her bedroom.  It smelled like him, that unique scent of a man fresh out of a shower without the mask of cologne or deodorant, or even scented soap.  It smelled like him, just like the alligator had once smelled like him when he'd given it to her their first Christmas together. Their only Christmas together.

He was going to kill her.  She knew it, even if he didn't.  Maybe she wouldn't die, but he'd kill her just the same.  She might not wind up in the ground, but she'd be dead. She was halfway gone already. She couldn't let him do it.  She couldn't let him drag her up there where that whore was, far away from anyone who could or would help her.  She had to do…something.

 She crawled quietly out of the tub and slid the footstool beside the toilet over the hole in the floor.  Standing on it, she examined the damage on her back.   The angry red lines couched in bruises left by the belt stood starkly against the paleness of her skin, flying like banners across her back. DRAKES BITCH was spelled out in mid-sized, sharp, angular capitals between her shoulders.  They weren’t bleeding anymore.  She didn’t think that they had bled much at all. He hadn’t cut very deep. He’d probably stopped when they had started to bleed, like she had told him she’d done when she would cut herself back in high school.

She took a deep breath and let it out very, very slowly.  She opened the door and went into the hall.  The trailer was silent, not even the T.V. was on.  The light in the living room wasn't as bright as it had been when they sat on the loveseat.  She wondered how long she'd been asleep.

She checked the back room first, because it was closest, and, fortunately for her, that's where he was.  The room wasn't very big. Half of it was taken up by a full-sized bed that stretched from wall to wall.  Drake was splayed across the silky black sheets, snoring lightly.

Her eyes got big.  This was her chance.  Silently, she tiptoed out of the room and went to the kitchen, careful not to step too heavily and cause a thump.  The bottle of vodka was still sitting on the bar, but it was nearly empty.  She grabbed it and went back.  As she crept up to the bed, she stubbed her toe on the loose vent cover.  Drake sat bolt upright in the bed, breathing harshly.

The bottle flew easily into the side of his head.  He dropped to the bed, bouncing lightly on the cheap mattress.  Oh, God. Was he dead?  Edging closer, she nudged him.  An agonizing groan escaped his lips. Panicking, Kate tossed the bottle to the side and set about chaining him up while he was still incapacitated.  The chains attached to the metal frame of the bed were the hefty chains used to tow cars. Even if he could lug her substantial weight around, he wouldn't be able to break these.

"You should wrap it twice, you know."

Kate jumped at the groggy voice.  "W-what?"

"Wrap it twice.  If you're gonna be this stupid, you might as well do it properly.  So, wrap it twice and lock it as close to the skin as you can."

She did as she was told, re-doing all of the chains one at a time while mockingly he instructed her.

He looked over her handiwork disdainfully while she cowered by the closet door.  "Well, bitch, what are you gonna do now?"

She grabbed her phone out of his pocket and ran out of the room.  What was she going to do?  The logical answer was to call the cops.  That's what her friends would have her do.  Even Deanna.  Even though she knew about all the calls that had been made in the past, that's still what she would advice.  After the cops had found out that they were a BDSM couple, they had stopped responding to the calls the neighbors made.  Even if they bothered to show up this time, they probably wouldn't do anything.

They would blame it on her.  If it went to trial, they would blame it on her too.  A trial would out her, and then the entire town would know.  All of that talk on Law and Order about confidentiality was crap. Kibler was a small community and the towns around it weren't much bigger.  Sure, the authorities couldn't officially tell anyone anything, but there would be people at the trial, and people talk.  Once they started talking, she would be nothing but a freak and a whore who brought all of this on herself.  Her church, which was nestled just down the road from the house would likely run her out of the building, if not the town altogether.

If she called the cops, she would be ostracized, and he might go to prison for a while if she was lucky.  Then he would come back.  He would come back and it would all begin again, and it would be worse.  Maybe he would even kill her.  Maybe he would keep her.

Jim wouldn't tell her to go to the police.  If anyone would help her, it was Jim.  Deanna and Jim's farm was only a few minutes down the road out past the church.  They could be here fast.  Even if Deanna still believed in the system, Jim knew better. He would know what to do, how to fix it.  He'd been fixing things for her since she'd first wandered onto the porch that summer seven years ago looking for work.

The three dreaded beeps and the automated voice of a woman saying the number was out of service were almost instantaneous.  She stared sadly at the screen on her phone as she remembered Deanna mentioning last week that they hadn't been able to pay the phone bill yet, so they wouldn't have phones until next Tuesday.

Kate dressed and returned to the back bedroom, sitting on a dirty ottoman that matched the armchair in the living room. It was shoved up against the broken dresser on the wall opposite from the bed.  Her chest of toys was on top of the dresser.  Drake was staring at her, one brow arched slightly.  She still found him attractive.  Too bad he was a psychopath.  She really did like his beard.

The psycho part was just a bit too big of a problem to overlook, though.  That would always be hanging over her head if she gave him to the cops.  If the cops would even take him.

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